Клэр Донелли - Hiss And Tell

“The only thing I’m interested in is finding out who killed a young woman,” Will told Randall in a flat voice. “As the case stands now, things don’t seem to hang together.”

Randall nodded. “Even in their scandals the Kingsburys are more staid than this.”

“I understand you think there might’ve been an element of blackmail in Eliza Stoughton’s life,” Will went on, ignoring Randall’s comment.

“Randall suggested the blackmailer might be out on Neal’s Neck,” Sunny added, then broke off the conversation as a waitress came over to get their orders. Will asked for coffee. Sunny, mindful of the late hour, ordered a lemonade. The last thing she wanted was to be kept up with coffee nerves. Their drinks quickly arrived, along with a refill for Randall, who’d taken the moment of silence to regroup. “As I said, it’s just a theory.” Now that his story had gotten out, he’d apparently decided to downplay everything.

“I thought you told Sunny that you had proof that this Taxman existed,” Will challenged him, and Randall rose to the bait.

“I’ve got ten years’ of files from a damned good crime reporter and conversations with several probable victims, but nobody who’d speak for the record,” he responded.

Will gave that a dismissive nod. “You also suggested that Eliza Stoughton died because she recognized this so-called Taxman, who’s apparently been in business at least ten years. At this point, our main suspects seem to be the young people in the compound. For one of them to have been running this extortion racket, they’d have had to have started while still in college—or even high school.”

“Not impossible,” Randall argued. “Augustus de Kruk tightened the purse strings on Carson after a very free-spending freshman year. It’s possible that pushed his son to extortion.”

“What about Peter Van Twissel?” Sunny asked. “He’s in a much lower financial bracket than the others. A little blackmail would go a long way to fund his friendships.” She paused. “And if he’s really a computer genius, he’d have the programming smarts to bounce payments all over creation.” She looked over at Will. “You said that the surveillance cameras on Neal’s Neck are recorded on hard drives. If anyone knew how to spoof a computer, it would be Peter.”

She also remembered his hands, with all their tiny scars from years of circuit board accidents. Bony but strong.

Randall nodded, but admitted, “You’re right. Frankly, I’ve been looking more at the older generations too. To me, the most likely—” He broke off, waving his hands. “I’ll say it again, this is only my personal theory, there’s no hard proof behind it.”

“Okay, this won’t be for attribution. Did I get that right?” Will asked.

“Spoken just like a veteran newsperson,” Sunny assured him.

Randall nodded, leaning toward them over the table and lowering his voice. “I think it’s the old man. Thomas Neal Kingsbury.”

“The Senator?” Sunny frowned dubiously, remembering the patrician man at the dinner table, unconsciously posing for media cameras that were no longer there.

“ Former senator,” Randall corrected. “And the way he lost his seat, with people deserting him for a younger, more approachable rival, it’s understandable that he might be a bit vengeful. He got treated shabbily by a lot of his supposedly loyal supporters.”

“I know,” Sunny said. “My dad mentioned that during his last campaign, Kingsbury was even reaching out to the Kittery Harbor dissidents. Not that it did him much good.”

“The Senator still has some friends in Augusta,” Will protested. “Enough to get a state police detachment on duty whenever he’s in residence on Neal’s Neck.”

“But that’s nothing compared to the weight he used to swing.” Randall rested his forearms on the table. “When I heard stories about the Taxman, one of the things that really fascinated me was how he dealt largely in favors, dictating corporate and political decisions. It almost seemed as if the money was of secondary interest.”

“Favors are the currency of politics,” Will admitted. “You can see it even in the sheriff’s department.”

“And here I thought it was campaign contributions,” Sunny said. “Or do you have to get higher up the food chain before that happens?”

Randall was still busy making his case. “To hijack both of your metaphors, I think favors would be important currency for someone who got thrown off the food chain. Someone who used to be powerful, but who got the old heave-ho.”

But Sunny could see other suspects. “Even so, what about people who are still involved in politics—like the governors? Favors could be just as crucial to them.”

“Those two are politicians who won’t go much farther than their respective state houses,” Randall replied confidently. “Lem took his shot at being the fresh new face in the presidential race and blew it. And unless something huge changes, Tom is a long shot for the next couple of election cycles. I think they’ll both end their careers as political has-beens.”

“Like the Senator, but not reaching as high.” Will scowled at the table. “Could the Taxman be one of them trying for some under-the-table influence?”

“And what about Caleb Kingsbury?” Sunny asked.

Randall shrugged. “A political never-was. He’d barely gotten elected to his first term as a congressman before that scandal broke over his head. After that, he was political poison. Some people even suggest that was the beginning of the end for the Senator. Certainly, it was a big blot on the Kingsbury name.”

“So, who’s left? We’ve pretty much covered all the Kingsbury males and most of the guys in the wedding party,” Will said.

“I’ve got a black horse,” Sunny piped up. “How about Lee Trehearne?”

Both Will and Randall turned to stare at her. “What?”

“It just strikes me that an operation like the Taxman’s would necessarily require a lot of information. That’s what a security guy deals in, too.” Sunny recalled Trehearne’s furious face when she and Ken Howell had penetrated his defenses. “We know he’s got surveillance stuff set up around the compound. And he’d be in a position to find out a lot of stuff, going back to when the Senator was more connected. Maybe he’d relish being the power behind the scenes.”

“I hadn’t thought of him,” Randall admitted. “Or it could be someone on his staff. . . .”

“Or crooked NSA wonks getting transcripts of phone calls and satellite photos of people up to dirty deeds.” Will was tired, and he’d obviously had enough of Randall for one night. “You’ve got a dandy theory, MacDermott, but nothing to back it up. I’m on shaky ground with the state police investigator as it is. If I accuse Trehearne of blackmail, or anybody else for that matter, I’ll get laughed off the case. I need more than your say-so, especially when you’re saying it could be any of half a dozen different people.”

“I’d need access to those people to narrow it down,” Randall told him. “And they’re all in a private compound behind a state police barricade.” He turned to Sunny. “But you, you’re inside there. Don’t you want to do something more substantial than the puff piece about going out on the bounding main that you wrote tonight?”

“I’m still trying to find my feet in there,” she told him. “And it’s not exactly easy to toss a casual, ‘Hey, have you blackmailed any interesting people lately?’ into the conversation.”

Randall looked into his coffee cup. “I’d hoped to keep all of this on the down low until I could prove the Taxman existed.” He shot a look at Sunny. “Thanks a lot for bringing the cops into it.”